Donald Freed
International Playwright
and Master Teacher

To Die For

A sequel to Who Killed Mona

I slammed through the door to the parking lot, an adrenalin rush propelling me forward.

                It was dark but the street lamps along the North and East walls cast enough light for me to see Adam stooping beside Billy's Rolls Royce. He turned a twisted face to me and as I came closer, I saw what he saw.

                Henry was sitting motionless in the driver's seat, a sodden scarf in his bloodied hands. Billy slumped next to him, blood beginning to congeal on a long cut across his throat. There was blood everywhere, splattered and puddled on Billy's body, on the windshield, the windows, the steering wheel, and all over Henry. He wiped his streaked face, streaking it further with blood.

         I rubbed at my eyes as if I could make the sight go away. I've seen plenty of dead bodies on the job but this body, Billy's body, kicked me in the gut.  And Henry was beside him. Henry who'd plotted to kill, and now had acted. But why was he still sitting there like a cluck?

        Henry said, "Oh my God, Adam, look. Look at poor Billy."

        "Get out of there, Henry," Adam's jagged voice was unrecognizable.

        "No," I held my hand out, palm up. "He doesn't move. We don't disturb the scene until the M.E. arrives."

        What the hell was Henry – this bloodied man- doing in Billy's car?  For once, he was in my power; I could close the trap on him. I wanted to think he'd killed Billy, wished he had, hoped he had. I took a deep breath, in spite of his threats and the evidence to the contrary, maybe he hadn't.

        So what?  He was a killer in all but physical fact. A killer in business, a killer of dreams, he was responsible for this. He'd willed Billy dead.